


Caffeine Bomb.

by BarPurple



Series: Liquid Bombs. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Drunken Shenanigans, Gen, Hangover, Mary Watson's Camera Phone, Some Swearing, mentions of cannon typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A successful case leads to a celebration for the Yarders and the boys of Baker Street. Seriously, what's the worst that could have happened?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caffeine Bomb.

Dur-dum

Dur-dum

Dur-dum

Greg groaned at the throbbing beat. Who the hell was playing the drums? 

Dur-dum

Dur-dum

Dur-dum

Oh, not drums, just his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. At the second attempt Greg's eyelids scraped opened, his eyeballs feeling far too big for their sockets. His tongue was dry and stuck to the roof of his mouth because all of his saliva had drooled out and glued his cheek to the leather of the couch. Nice.

Leather couch? Not at home then. His sofa was a cheap fabric affair that his brother had given him when he moved into his flat. The question of "Where the Hell am I?" slowly formed out of the fog in his head.

With a pitiful groan Greg lifted his head and took a bleary look around the room. Ah, Baker Street, it was coming back to him now. After a frantic seven weeks they'd finally caught that bastard Farringdon red handed. Flying on the adrenaline high of a great collar, a rescued victim and a near instant confession Lestrade had declared the paperwork could wait for a day while they celebrated. Lord knows they needed to blow off steam after this case.

As Greg's brain cleared a little more he became aware of the sounds and smells in the room around him. The air was thick with the fug of too many bodies in a closed space. It was the reek of alcohol being sweated out overlaid with the smell of stale curry. Not the most pleasant odour in the world, but it always put Greg in mind of rugby victories at uni and celebrations like this one. The sweet scent of success he thought wryly.

The other occupants of the room were starting to stir now if the snuffles and groans were anything to go by. Greg tried to stretch his legs out and got a half hearted bat to the thigh. Looking down at the sofa he saw a cocoon of blanket with waterfall of dark blond hair resting on his hip. Ah, Molly Hooper. The petite pathologist had joined them at the second, or third pub. She deserved to celebrate as much as any of them after working like a demon to find every clue the bodies could give them. 

A vague memory stirred from last night, Molly and Sally singing karaoke. Hopefully he'd filmed that. Greg carefully extracted himself from under the pathologist and slid less than gracefully to the floor. Molly muttered something about blood samples and cat hair before pulling the blanket over her head.

Greg took in the rest of the room. Sally Donovan was curled up in Sherlock's chair hugging a Naan bread to her chest like it was a teddy bear. There was a blanket pooled on the floor that she'd obviously kicked off in her sleep. Someone had tried to make them comfortable at least.

As Greg got to his feet he spotted Dimmock stretched out the floor with his head on the hearth, his jacket serving time as a pillow. After a few minutes staring he worked out what looked odd about Dimmock. For some reason the young inspector was wearing a feather boa. A purple and pink feather boa. Where the heck had that come from? 

Deciding the Case of the Random Boa could wait until he was more human, Greg made his way to the bathroom. He was halfway through a satisfying pee and a jaw cracking yawn when movement from the bathtub made him jump.

"Don't mind me." came the hoarse yawn of John Watson.

Greg finished off and zipped up before pulling the shower curtain back. John was stretched in the tub fully dressed.

"Morning. You okay in there?"

On single eye squinted up at Greg as John considered the question carefully.

"Why am I in the bath?"

"No idea mate. Molly's a cocoon on the sofa, Dimmock's in the fireplace and Sally's cuddling bread in Sherlock's chair."

"Hum. Good night had by all then. Any sign of Sherlock?"

"Not yet. I'm gonna make some tea."

"You're a star Greg."

With that the ex-army doctor managed to roll over in the tub and showed no sign of wanting to move. Greg left him to it and wandered into the kitchen.

The kitchen of 221B was often a source of wonder, but rather than a crazily smoking science experiment Greg was met with a sight of blessed salvation. No angel could ever look more divine to a hung over man than Mrs. Hudson holding a tray of bacon butties. Greg moved forward to clear a space on the table for her precious cargo. 

"Good morning Detective Inspector. Thought you might need this after last night."

"Thanks Mrs H. We didn't disturb you last night did we?" 

Greg took a bite from the buttie. The perfect crunch of well crisped bacon and the tang of brown sauce hit his taste buds. Mrs. Hudson was a national treasure, no doubt about it.

"No dear. I had my bedroom sound proofed years ago. So I didn't hear a thing once you made it up the stairs. You will have to teach me that shanty you were singing though. I don't think I've heard that version before."

While Greg was wracking his brains for what song they might have been singing the landlady of 221B bustled about with cups and the kettle. Greg sat on one of the stools and let her get on with it while he ate his buttie.

John shuffled into the kitchen yawning.

"Mrs. Hudson you are a life saver." he said as he snagged a sandwich from the plate.

"Sweet talker. I'm only doing this because Mary said you all worked so hard catching that vile man. She said her and Mina would be back round this morning, so try and make yourself presentable. Such a darling little girl you've got there John."

Greg watched as John's face lit up with the smile of a proud father. Mrs Hudson turned round with two cups in her hands.

"There you go boys. A nice strong cuppa to get you back on your feet."

With that she picked up the tray and went into the living to hand out the cups of healing caffeine to everyone else.

There wasn't much conversation in the living room. Basically everyone was enjoying the peaceful moments before they had to work out what happened last night and how embarrassed they should be. Greg and John brought the tray of sandwiches in as everyone else made the slow move to vertical, aided by Mrs Hudson's tea.

The quiet reflection was disturbed by a deep groan from upstairs. Followed rapidly by the stuttering thumps that suggested someone had just fallen down the stairs on their backside. A louder groan from the bottom of the stairs confirmed this. The only response from everyone was a careful, but interested turning of heads to the source of the ruckus.

The world's only consulting detective lurched into the room. There was a burst of unsympathetic laughing followed by gentle groaning from everyone as they realised that laughter hurt at the moment. Sherlock was hanging on to the wall looking like the poster child for the evils of alcohol. His ebony curls were tangled into a birds nest and for some reason had feathers stuck in them. He only had one arm in his suit jacket and the normally impeccable dress shirt was rumpled, untucked and stained with what might be green Thai curry. The picture of misery scrapped his teeth over his tongue and spoke,

"I've lost my shoe."

Mrs. Hudson frowned at him before handing him a cup.

"Yes dear. You chucked it out of the window last night claiming it was a big meanie. Mrs. Turner brought it back for you this morning."

Sherlock blinked at her and took a drink of tea.  
  
"Oh. That must have made sense at the time. Thank you for the tea."

He very carefully let go of the wall and gave Mrs. Hudson a one armed hug.  
  
"What would we do without you?"

She gave him an indulgent smile and patted his arm.  
  
"I dread to think dear. Now drink up all of you. Mrs. Turner's brought her laptop round so I can watch Mary's videos."

With that the landlady vanished down the stairs. There was a heavy thoughtful silence in the flat.

"Did she say Mary's videos? Wasn't Mary with us for a lot of last night John?" Sally asked carefully.

"Yeah, she came back here with us to pick Mina up then went home."

Another thoughtful silence descended as New Scotland Yard's finest connected the dots. Eyebrows were raised and varying looks of horror took up residence on their faces. Sherlock rumbled into life first.

"John, find out what your wife has done. I'm going to drown myself."

"Bit of an over-reaction don't you think?" suggested Molly, not sounding too convinced herself.

"Not in the slightest. I can remember some of what Mary filmed and to be honest drowning is preferable. I'm surprised you all don't feel the same."

With that Sherlock stumbled into the bathroom.

"It can't be that bad, can it?" Dimmock suggested.

Sally lobbed a cushion at his head. Greg sighed.

"Dimmock. If you have to ask that question then of course it's going to be worse than you think."

From downstairs came the worrying sound of two of Baker Street's landladies laughing themselves silly.

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to write a drabble in the time of a song when Caffeine Bomb came on. Now I can't type fast enough to write anything in the length of that song, but it did spawn the plot bunny responsible for this. 
> 
> I might write up the case that lead to the celebration and possibly the night out itself. So, let me know if you want to know just what Mary recorded.
> 
> Kudos and comments are as vital as Mrs. Hudson's tea.


End file.
